De la mort, la vie
by sparklyscorpion
Summary: A belated Christmas present for hikari-no-tsubasa for the PFN secret santa. Christine and Raoul's first Christmas together. Leroux-based with liberties taken.


_I don't own anything, like usual._

_This is a very belated Christmas present for the awesome hikari-no-tsubasa, an author whom I admire greatly. Her wish:_

_Write me the story of Raoul and Christine's first Christmas together (as a married couple, not as kids with a thing for angels and scarves) It can involve any other characters you want, including Erik, but no Raoul-bashing and I want Raoul and Christine still together at the end. It can be happy, sad, fluffy, morbid, etc, but keep it serious, no parodies please! Keep it in period, though I won't be nitpicky about historical details. Base the characters on Leroux or ALW, whichever you feel more comfortable writing.  
_

_My original idea for this was R/C fluff, but the more I tried to write it the more the story wanted to become angsty. So...here it is. Mostly Leroux although I took liberties with it. _

* * *

The death of Count Philippe, and the hasty elopement of his younger brother and an opera singer with scandal attached to her name, had been the gossip of Paris for months; even after Raoul was cleared of any wrongdoing, the tongues still wagged in disapproval. It was the general consensus that the young Chagny had no sense of duty to his family; not only had he married a commoner, a woman who had earned her living on the stage no less, but he had deserted France in favor of the homeland of his new bride without so much as a by-your-leave. There was no shortage of scapegoats in the whole affair – Count Philippe had spoiled the lad, his sisters and aunt had failed in raising him properly and had not instilled the manners required of a young nobleman – but most of the blame fell upon the slender shoulders of the blonde angel from the north. She had surely bewitched him. 

Perhaps it was best that the young couple had fled Paris when the opportunity had presented itself; no doubt their love for one another would have been severely tried had they remained in that city. Yet the pair soon discovered that, no matter how many kilometers they were from France, they could not quite outrun the ghosts of the past – one Ghost in particular.

It was not as if their every waking thought was consumed by the past; to say so would be a lie. Raoul was still the charming young man he had always been, and Christine was still the sweet girl with whom he had fallen in love. If Raoul was a little more wary and a little less trusting, Christine did not comment upon it; and, although the new bridegroom noticed that his wife no longer sang or spoke of the fairies and nymphs that had once danced through the forests of Sweden, he remained mute about it. Neither mentioned the nightmares that still plagued them; Raoul dreaming of glowing yellow eyes that shone eerily in the darkness of the Communard dungeon, and Christine of skeletal fingers that brutally twisted in her hair to drag her down into the depths of a grave. Neither said a word when they awoke drenched in cold sweat and clinging to one another beneath the covers like two frightened children, haunted by a vision far more horrific than any of Daddy Daaé's dark tales. They were content with one another, for each understood the ordeal the other had experienced; no one else in the world could say as much, and so they carved out a happy and quiet life in the frozen north.

Days became weeks, then months; soon the sun sat so low upon the horizon that most of their waking hours were spent without its warming rays. It was in this state of perpetual darkness that Raoul trudged to the city every day, searching for a copy of _L'Epoque_ and the news that he longed to read. It would mean that one more nail would be driven into the coffin that was their past, yet he feared it at the same time because it would require their return to Paris. Christine had promised to bury the monster once the notice of his death reached them; it had never occurred to her that she might break that promise made in good faith, and it had never occurred to Raoul that she would make the trip alone. Soon they would be forced to face their fears and perhaps lay them to rest along with the remains of Christine's fallen angel – Raoul knew this. He could feel it in his young bones.

It was less than three weeks before Christmas, and the snow was so deep that Raoul's knee-high boots disappeared into the white drifts outside the door. After purchasing a newspaper and a small packet of Punsch pralines for his wife, Raoul made the trek back to his warm cottage once more. _It is nothing like the estate in France_, he thought to himself as he stared at the small brick building that had become his home in the past few months, _and yet it's more inviting than that place had ever been to me_. He could see Christine's silhouette moving in the well-lit parlor, and he smiled to himself as he stamped his feet upon the porch before entering the small hallway. _She is the reason I always hurry back from my errands and why I cannot wait to return to this place when I leave._

His grin only widened as she bustled into the room as soon as she heard the door slam behind him, her cheeks rosy from exertion and her hair tied back. He had offered to employ a maid for her use, but she would have none of it; she had been raised a simple girl and she was still one. No one would be able to rightfully accuse of her marrying the Vicomte de Chagny for his money, as she spent so little of it. _No_, he thought as she helped him from his coat before lazily wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly to her small frame, _if those gossiping hens back in Paris could only see how it is between us, they would know that it is a love match_.

Slipping the small bag of pralines into the pocket of her apron before returning her embrace, Raoul pressed his cold nose against her blonde hair and inhaled deeply, wishing that every moment could be as perfect as this. The paper slipped from his numb fingers onto the floor, but neither cared just yet; they were together once more, and they had learned months ago that each moment spent in the other's company was precious indeed.

Finally she pulled away from his embrace and smiled at him, her eyes twinkling as she bent to scoop up the scattered _L'Epoque_ from the floor. His eyes lingered upon her as she searched the notices with a keen eye, looking for the words that they had been seeking for months. Turning away from her for a moment, he shrugged out of his coat and muffler before bending to unlace his boots. "When should we get our tree?" he teased gently as he pulled at the knots with fingers made clumsy from the cold winds that blew outside their door, mentally shaking his head at the Swedish custom of decorating for Christmas only the day before it arrived. In France, his mother had had the servants deck the house in winter finery as soon as the calendar proclaimed it was December; his brother had kept that tradition, even though Philippe had not shared their mother's joy in the holidays.

Instead of offering her customary flippant remark, Christine remained silent; concerned, he glanced over his shoulder and discovered that the blood had drained from her peaked face, and her fingers were shaking so badly that she could barely hold onto the paper that rustled loudly in her hands. His boots forgotten, Raoul rushed to her side and nearly tripped upon the half-undone laces in his effort. "What is it?" he asked, instinctively knowing the answer to his question even before he voiced the words.

She said nothing, merely staring at him blankly with terrified eyes. He tore the newspaper from her hands and scanned the page, his stomach lurching as he read three simple words:

_Erik est mort._

He had expected to feel _something_ when the statement of Erik's mortality was finally printed, although he had been unsure of what he would feel. Joy? Fear? Anger? He had not expected to feel completely numb and, as he looked into the eyes of his young bride, he saw his own shock reflected in them.

She broke their unnatural silence first with a soft keening sound that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on edge. She launched herself into her husband's arms, nearly knocking him over in the process, and buried her face against his neck as her shoulders shook with her sobs. He awkwardly attempted to comfort her as he tried to come to terms with those three little words that had changed their world forever.

"I have to go to him," she choked after a bit, wiping her wet cheeks against his shoulder. "I promised him that I would, once we heard."

Raoul sighed and curled his fingers in her hair, rocking her back and forth as if she were no more than a small child. "_We_ must go," he corrected solemnly, "for I will not allow you to return alone. You know this Christine, we have discussed it…"

"I never thought it would truly _happen_," she cried as she struggled against his hold upon her, pulling away from him until she could look into his eyes. "I…he was an Angel, Raoul…oh I knew he wasn't, not _truly_, but…he once was _my_ Angel, and angels do not die…somehow I did not think…I didn't expect, not like this…"

Raoul watched helplessly as tears once again rolled down her pale cheeks. "Perhaps you should not go," he replied gently, hoping that she did not construe his words in a way he did not intend them. "Perhaps I should go in your stead."

"No!" she gasped, shaking her head in denial. "I must go! Now."

"Now? But we haven't any plans to travel, and if we leave now we will not arrive in Paris until nearly Christmas…" But, as he examined the determined set of her jaw and the iron will that sparkled even amidst her tears, he knew that he would not be able to successfully argue the point with her. He regretted that Erik still had such a hold on her. Christine still wore the monster's ring on her finger and her head was still filled with thoughts of him, and now Erik had ruined their first Christmas together as husband and wife. _I wonder if he did not orchestrate this somehow,_ Raoul thought to himself bitterly. "Allow me a day to make plans for our trip, Christine – we shall leave tomorrow."

She looked ready to disagree with him, but common sense seemed to win out in the end. "We need to pack anyway…yes, tomorrow." She scurried away from him, the tender moment they had shared upon his return home forgotten as her thoughts were consumed by what to pack and how to prepare their home for their untimely departure.

Raoul sighed and relaced his boots before drawing his coat over his shoulders once more. It was going to be a long Christmas season.

* * *

They left the frigid shores of Sweden a day later than expected due to unavoidable delays, much to Christine's consternation, but they soon enough found themselves adrift upon the sea. Raoul now hated the water with a passion, though he had once been a sailor; nearly drowning in the monster's torture chamber had destroyed any allure that the open sea had once held for him. Raoul stayed below deck as much as possible, only leaving their quarters to eat or accompany his wife upon one of her walks. She was restless and dark circles had formed beneath her eyes; even sleep afforded her no comfort, for she spent the night whimpering and thrashing about in their bed, alternately pushing him away and clinging to him so tightly that her nails dug bloody furrows in his skin. Her nightmares only triggered his own, more fearful than they had ever been in Sweden, and he often awoke wondering if either of them would retain their sanity long enough to reach France. 

At long last they were able to place their feet once again on solid ground, which calmed Raoul's nerves slightly but only seemed to exacerbate Christine's fears. She spent the entire train trip to Paris closeted away in their private berth, refusing to venture even to the dining car, and leaving only for the water closet if her husband accompanied her and stood guard outside the door. "What if he is not dead?" she murmured as the train chugged ever closer to Paris, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably as she curled against her protector's chest, but all the while her blue eyes asked the question that she dared not speak aloud: "What if he _is_ dead?"

As Raoul had predicted, they arrived in Paris two days before Christmas, the warmth of the Continent a welcome change from the bitter cold of Sweden. There was no snow to be found upon the busy streets or bone-chilling wind blowing through layers of clothing that never managed to protect one completely from the elements. The first order of business was to procure lodging for the next few nights; he had no doubt that their mission would affect his already frail wife. No matter how much either wished to leave this city permanently and quickly, he would not put Christine's health in danger. It was obvious that their hurried return to France had taken a toll upon her; she seemed so weak, it was a wonder that she was able to stand, much less walk. He found what he was looking for not too far from the station; he registered under a false name and paid for their room and board before insisting that Christine spend the next few hours sleeping. She initially refused, telling him that she would be unable to rest until they completed the task of burying her tutor, but Raoul scooped her up and tucked her in, and within a few minutes her protestations gave way to the soft sounds of sleep.

Raoul took that time to reflect upon the circumstances at hand. He would not put it past the demon to falsify news of his death in an attempt to lure Christine back to him; they would need to be prepared, lest there was a trap waiting for them in the cellars of the Opera. _At least this time I am keen to his tricks_, the fair-haired Vicomte thought to himself as he glanced at his sleeping bride. He considered enlisting the aid of the Persian but immediately discounted that idea; not only was he unsure if the man even remained in the city, but he had never fully trusted the one who had claimed to be friends with the man whom Christine had once called Angel.

After a few hours, it became apparent that Christine was exhausted and would not awaken from her slumber any time soon. Raoul tiredly unbuttoned his collar and removed his boots before joining her upon the bed.

* * *

They spent the next day in solitude, waiting for the comforting cloak of night to envelop Paris before venturing outside. It would not do to be recognized; Raoul had no desire to explain anything to his former acquaintances or, worse yet, his family, and there was always the danger that Christine would be remembered, especially if she was seen at the Opera House. Raoul was young but, in spite of the cruel words of the upper echelon, he was no fool; he knew that any public appearance by either of them would only fuel the fires of gossip once more, and he did not wish for this experience to be any more painful for his wife than burying her former tutor would inherently be. So they took their dinner in their room and passed the time in quiet, but not in peace, for the underlying thread of tension ruined what could have otherwise been a perfect afternoon. 

Christine watched the sun sink low onto the horizon from her perch upon the windowsill, the white curtains framing her face just as prettily as her makeshift veil had on their wedding day, yet today she did not smile shyly when she looked at him; no, today she was somber with the thought of that corpse, dead or living they could not say for certain, below the Opera. She grew more agitated by the moment until Raoul thought surely that she would burst; she nearly jumped out of her skin as he cleared his throat. "Perhaps it is time," he said finally.

She bobbed her head in agreement, running her fingers nervously down her black gown before rising from her seat. Raoul arranged to have a closed brougham for their usel partially because he wished to remain hidden from prying eyes, but also because he was unsure of what Christine's mental state would be after emerging from the Opera House. The driver looked a bit strangely at the solemn couple but said not a word to either of them, merely tipping his cap politely at the lady before scurrying up to his perch once more – it was not his concern if they seemed out of place on such a customarily festive night.

Raoul envied the passersby upon the street, their faces aglow as they went to Mass or perhaps the home of a friend or family member, thinking only of the wonders of the season and the companionship that they would share when they arrived at their destinations. He doubted that any of them had such a grave task ahead of them – it was not a common Christmas Eve tradition to bury the man who had abducted your fiancée on more than one occasion and nearly killed you in the process. Christine stared out the window as well, but her eyes were sad and far away; perhaps she thought of happier days in Sweden, before she had been forced to leave the fairytale world her father had carefully woven for her; or, perhaps, she even thought of the time when her Angel of Music had been a divine being sent by her beloved parent to tutor her in the ways of music – not a man who would lay at her feet a love she could not possibly understand, much less reciprocate.

The brougham finally came to a stop upon the darker and less-traveled Rue Scribe; Raoul helped his wife from the carriage before speaking quietly to the driver. He was to wait for their return at that very spot and was instructed not leave even if they tarried long into the night; he would make sure to reward him appropriately for his service. And although the vicomte had used a false name this whole time in Paris, the driver was certain that a man of such gentlemanly airs was some type of nobility and good for the money he had promised, even if his activities on this night seemed a little suspicious.

Raoul checked to make sure his wife's furs were securely wrapped around her slight shoulders before he took her hand in his own; she gave him a distracted smile in thanks, although she appeared to be terrified. The Opera stood towering above them and the memories rolled over the pair like waves upon the shore, yet he took a steady step forward and she followed him, as trusting as a young girl trailing behind her father. Raoul absentmindedly wondered when he had taken on the role of parent instead of husband to this creature whose fingers were like ice; there was no doubt that she needed someone upon whom she could depend, someone strong who could soothe her when the world demanded too much of her – Erik had known this as well and had used it to his advantage more than once.

The key to the door that led to the cellars of the Opera made a scraping noise in the lock, and Raoul had difficulty turning it; he had nearly decided that Erik must have blocked the entrance when the door swung open with a metallic grinding shriek that set his teeth on edge. He eyed the darkness with suspicion, nervously rubbing his neck as he remembered the Persian's warning about the demon's deadly accuracy with a thin strip of catgut. The flame of the lantern he had brought with them flickered bravely as he held it up high, searching for anything that would give cause for alarm, but he found nothing unduly strange. He disappeared into the doorway but stopped when Christine refused to budge, her eyes round with fright. "I've dreamed of this," she whispered unsteadily, gripping his fingers so tightly that he feared he would lose circulation in them. "He's here – oh god, he's here…"

"He's dead, Christine. He cannot harm either of us." Raoul made the proclamation with as much bravado as he could muster and prayed that Christine could not detect his bluff. She seemed to trust his assessment, for she hesitantly stepped through the doorway and into the darkness of Erik's realm. She jumped as the door shut behind them and wrapped her arms around his elbow, her teeth chattering noisily as she clung to him.

They trudged through the shadows that had haunted them for the past months, the noise of their footsteps drowned out by the pounding of their hearts, both waiting for the master of this eerie world to come for them once more. Raoul did not know where the well by which Erik was supposedly waiting for them was located, but Christine refused to take the lead. Several times Raoul took the wrong passage and Christine did not correct him until a few moments later, but finally she seemed to regain her bearings and timidly instructed him on how to reach the place at which Erik had held the woman he had hoped to make his living bride in his skeletal arms. Raoul's mind warred desperately over which scenario would be more frightening for her – finding a dead man waiting for them, or a living one.

The steady drip of water signaled that they were close; their terror increased with each second, their steps becoming shorter as they attempted to delay their discovery, one way or the other. But finally they could not deny the truth – there was a man there in the darkness, propped up against the wall with his long legs stretched before him and his hands folded neatly upon his lap. It was Erik, of that there was no doubt, even though men tend to resemble each other in death. Christine hesitated only for a second before rushing forward, and Raoul was powerless to stop her. She stood gazing solemnly at the body of the man who had once been her tutor, her friend, and her fatherly figure. "Erik, your Christine, she has returned like she promised she would," she murmured as she knelt before the corpse, taking his left hand in her own. She deftly slipped the ring that had she had worn since they had left Paris from one trembling finger, the plain gold band that Raoul had silently despised all of these months because it occupied the spot where his ring should rightfully rest, and slid it onto Erik's own finger. "As I promised," she whispered once more, dashing away the rebellious tears that traced shining paths down her cheeks.

She rose from him then, her back straight as she rejoined her husband. "We've married, just like you wanted us to…he has been good to me Erik, so very good, so very understanding. I love him, as you knew I did. We are happy – I hope…I hope you…" She choked on her words and turned helplessly towards Raoul.

"Christine, why don't you sit down – I will do what needs to be done." Raoul thought she would argue with him for a moment, but her shoulders sagged in defeat and she merely nodded her acquiescence to his wishes. Erik, apparently considerate of them in his last days, had dug his own grave – deep and narrow, nearly a perfect fit for his long, lean frame, almost as if he had measured it precisely – or climbed down into the grave to make sure it was correct. He had even left a small shovel propped against the stones. Grimacing, Raoul drug him by the ankles and lowered him into the gaping hole with as little noise as possible, fearing for Christine, who sat only a few feet away with her arms protectively curled around her knees as she turned her head away from the sight.

Christine shivered at the sound of dirt being shoveled upon the former vessel of The Voice, and Raoul tried to hurry with his gruesome task, scooping as much earth as possible with each shovelful. Christine's hands crept towards the sides of her face and she covered her ears, as if she could not bear the thought of Erik being beneath the ground in such a permanent way. "He had longed to live in the sun," she said, her words nearly obscured by the dirt being packed into the grave that Erik had designed – he, the great architect, the man who had constructed buildings for the Shah of Persia, who had fashioned a home for himself five stories beneath the world – he had created one more monument, a lonely hole dug on the spot where he had experienced one small measure of comfort, one brief glimpse of the happiness that had been denied to him for all of his tortured life.

Finally the ghastly deed was done, and Raoul placed the shovel against the stone wall once more. The silence caused Christine to stir from her memories; once again she was in the present, instead of the past that she both longed to forget and hoped to always remember – for she sometimes told him that it had not _all_ been bad, although Raoul always had a difficult time understanding that. He watched as she wiped the dirt from her hands upon the dark fabric of her dress and stood before the small mound that entombed the man who had taken the name of Erik by accident. She reached for the smooth gold band that had occupied her right ring finger since their marriage and slipped it from her finger, handing it to Raoul in a silent gesture. They reenacted a scene that had originally occurred in Erik's home; Raoul placed the ring gently upon her left ring finger and kissed her hand, remembering when the demon had dragged him from the Communard's dungeon – he had been so certain that he was to die at last with that death's head looming over him, those glowing yellow eyes narrowed in his direction before a bony hand had wrapped around his wrist and dragged him along the dark path that led to the monster's lair – and had given Christine to him, making him promise to marry her and take care of her. _He would want it this way, if he could not have her_, Raoul decided as he placed his hand over his wife's and squeezed her fingers.

"Perhaps we should sing a hymn?" the young girl asked quietly, her trembling question nearly inaudible in the oppressive silence of the caverns that were the Opera cellars. Raoul nodded slightly but did not join in with her words; he had not heard her sing like this since they had left Paris, and he instinctively knew that he would never hear her like this again. She would hum soft lullabies to their children and sing of God's mercy in their church, but this glorious instrument – it was a gift from her Angel and now she was returning it to him, placing it into his grave just as she had slipped the golden ring onto his bony finger.

Not for the first time, Raoul wondered if he had done right by Christine after all, if she would not have been happier on the stage than tucked away in the Swedish countryside. She turned around to face him then, tears trailing down her pale cheeks and her wobbling legs barely able to support her, instinctively seeking the warmth of her husband's body. "Take me from here, Raoul," she sobbed, shivering against him as she desperately clung to his coat, "take me away from here and never bring me back."

Tucking Christine's hand into the crook of his elbow, Raoul carefully guided his wife towards the outside world, retracing their footsteps until they could once again breathe the fresh night air and hear the clomp of horses' hooves upon the cobbled streets. The carriage was waiting for them, the driver hopping down from his perch and opening the door. Raoul helped Christine into the seat across from him, but she clung to his arm with a fierceness that seemed alien to her normal temperament, refusing to allow him to leave her for even a moment. Relenting, he joined her upon the leather seat and allowed her to cry piteously against his coat, ignoring the comments from the driver that it was a shame that such a pretty lady was so sad on Christmas Eve.

She had stopped sobbing by the time they reached their quarters, but she was still not herself. She clutched his elbow as if it was her only anchor to the world, shaking like a frightened rabbit as Raoul tipped the driver. She said not a word as Raoul carefully steered her towards their quarters, her red-rimmed eyes peering over her shoulder once more as she eyed the road, as if searching for something – or perhaps someone – in the lazy wisps of fog that swirled about. Finding nothing, she allowed herself to be led through the door until she was standing as still as a stone statue in the center of the cheerless room, a tiny sprig of drooping holly the only reminder that Christmas was only a few hours away.

"Christine," her husband said finally, gazing at her with concern plainly written upon his features. She pivoted towards him slowly, almost as if emerging from a dream, and blinked at him owlishly. "Come here," he murmured, extending his hand towards her. She went to him without protest, tucking her forehead against his shoulder as she had so often done in the past few weeks, and once again she allowed her convoluted emotions to take hold of her. He held her tightly and rocked her, just as he had when they had learned that Erik was dead, which only seemed to make her cry all the more. Her strength eventually deserted her, as did her tears; she did not fight him as he slowly slipped her dress from her shoulders and patted her face with a wet cloth before scooping her up in his arms and placing her on the bed.

He had not meant to join her just yet, for he was not tired, but her fingers were insistent and her pleas for him to not leave her alone tore at his already bruised heart. She watched him from the pillows as he hastily unbuttoned his shirt and tugged at his boots; she was silent as the grave while he extinguished the lamps and the mattress dipped beneath his weight. Sighing, he pulled the coverlet over them and lay on his back, drawing her shaking body into his arms and cursing the dead man who still had such a hold over his beloved wife.

She was a child once more, seeking the assurance of a man who felt no stronger than her quivering form. She clung to him just as she had when the terrors she repressed during the day were unleashed in her dreams, and Raoul whispered meaningless words of comfort against her temple as her body trembled against him. Finally her tremors grew fainter until they ceased; Raoul believed her to be asleep, until she whispered something into the darkness.

"What did you say?" he questioned after a moment, unsure if he was meant to hear her words.

She shook her head and rested her face against his shoulder, her arms tightening around his back. "Is it so wicked of me to thank God that he is dead?" she mumbled against the soft white cloth of his undershirt. "On this night when we are to celebrate birth…to be thankful for death?"

"I do not think so," Raoul replied thoughtfully, withdrawing slightly from his wife so he could see her tear-filled eyes. "He made your life, _our_ lives, so…no, I do not think you are wicked, to be thankful to be free of him."

"I am grateful for that, of course," she answered quietly, averting her gaze as her fingers traced the collar of his shirt. "And yet…I am thankful because he no longer suffers, because he no longer must live with the desires he could never have fulfilled. He no longer has to live beneath the ground like an animal…" She paused and bit her lip, nibbling on it as she worried over her words. "And now you must surely think me mad, Raoul, to pity him still, after all he has done…"

"I…Christine, I cannot pretend to understand how you can think of him with anything but loathing. I never understood that…but no, I do not think you mad." He placed a soft kiss upon her forehead, an eerie reminder of another kiss so long ago, a kiss that had won their freedom but still chained her to the past, and his wife cried out from the painful memory.

"Raoul," she murmured, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she pulled him closer. "Please…"

They clung to one another not as frightened children but as lovers, seeking comfort from the warmth of their bodies and the love that they shared. And if she was freer with her affections that night, more a wanton than the shy reserved girl he had bedded in evenings past, he did not remark upon it; the knowledge that she now belonged to him completely and the feel of the smooth metal band upon his back, the ring that he had slipped upon her finger that very night, were enough to drive himself half-mad with desire. He could not begin to imagine how she felt now that the heavy weight of her promise had been lifted from her heart, so he did not try; instead he attempted to show her with fumbling caresses how he accepted whatever she would give, whomever she would be.

Afterward, Raoul lay curled against her back with his hand against her stomach, his fingers stroking the soft flesh that protected the new life that was beginning to grow in her womb, although neither of them would be aware of that fact for a few months. He only knew that he was relieved to be alive and to have this woman, whom he loved above all else, beside him. He wondered sleepily if Joseph had felt this way after Mary had given birth to the Christ child, after her body had ceased being God's chosen vessel for His Son, and they had finally been free to become husband and wife in every sense.

There were no nightmares that night; Raoul dreamed of golden-haired children instead of golden eyes, and the only hands Christine felt upon her body were the gentle ones belonging to her husband.

* * *

_Merry Christmas, Hikari!_


End file.
